Inca 101

Arriving way too early in the morning to check-in, Andy and I are left doing the only thing that a traveller can at 530am: Facebook. A little while later, I feel ready to brave a shower, which luckily is hot, and I head to conquer the bag room, which is stuffed full of backpacks from those already up at Machu Picchu. Knowing that the clock is definitely against me, I head out straight away to check the local scenery and organise my own tour.

Like most of the travellers here, I haven’t booked six months ahead for one of the coveted Inca Trail spots – which only allows 500 people per day a day, including guides - regulated to protect the significance of the ancient path. Instead I must opt for one of the other ‘alternative’ routes that run almost every day of the year. Following on from my recent biking exploits, I am instantly attracted by the four day Inca Jungle Trail that involves a day of mountain biking before two days of hiking, hot springs and a final climb for sunrise over the fallen dynasty.

Figuring I probably need at least a day to sort myself out, I find one such place, which will give me a student discount and keep me safe from the horrors of tenting for only USD$125. I also spy the Sacred Valley tour for the next day, which I think will be a good way to absorb some preliminary Incan history.

I wander further down the hill towards the San Pedro Markets to grab one of their famed juices and trail through the fresh cheese, caviar, chicken soup kitchens and obligatory alpaca goods. Throwing caution to the wind about my baggage allowance, I indulge in some strong coca chocolate - ready for my next role in the States as Aunty Collette – excellent for making fresh hot chocolate.

After here I make my way towards Avenida del Sol to the Cathedral and Convent of Santo Domingo, built on the site of the Incan House of God (Suntar Wasi), their Coricancha Church and the palace of Incan Wiracocha. Here I am amazed at the accuracy of Incan construction – with stones being perfected moulded together in angles, without need for cement or binding. I can fully understand why it took more than 100 years to construct.

Finally it is about time to check-in (the weird booking ‘system’ at Loki’s Hostel means that I basically have to wait for someone to leave before I can get in, despite my reservation), and so I stroll back, stripping down to my t-shirt when the overhead sun starts to burn away the layers of cold I have amassed in the last few weeks. I eventually make it into my room and promptly fall asleep only waking later to confirm my tour in American dollars, and finish my night with a beer and a plate of chips in the Loki’s bar.

Questions and Answers

My first day in Santiago was much like the weather – a little overcast, but a warm-ish 20 degrees. Following a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, individually prepared by the cook/cleaner, I hopped straight on the metro and made my way into town. I walked past the many street vendors with their woollen cardigans, squawking plastic parrots and knitted scarves, past the demonstrations of useless kitchen products (think Demtel), and ended up at the Palacio de la Moneda.

The Presidential Palace of the Chile, it is probably best known as the site of Salvador Allende’s last speech as leader of the struggling country, before troops stormed its doors, and he committed suicide. But like the days, and indeed the many years that followed Allende’s demise, its doors are closed to unofficial visitors and I instead disappear below, into the cultural centre located underneath.

A relatively new place, that has not yet made it into the Lonely Planet guide, its modern edgy design greatly contrasts the streets above. Housing several different spaces over its three levels, the centre contains galleries, art-shops, an arthouse cinema, a bookstore, cafes and restaurants – all of which are full with lunching businessmen and women. A few local tourists float around with me through the traditional Mapuche display, and the collection of religious relics below, but I am basically the only real foreigner here. (And so it continues through my most of my visit).

Taking in the Chilean Museum of Pre-Colombian art – which gave a comprehensive tour through the years and cultures of Latin America – I then made a pit-stop at El Rapido for a fish and cheese empanada. Having grown so fond of these readily available bites, I consider myself to be somewhat of a mini-expert now, sampling them across three countries. And these would definitely make my top five for their crunch, spice and yes, you guessed it, oozing cheese. I just can’t get enough!

From here, I made my way past the glum Cathedral, and slightly more lively Plaza de Armas, to the National Historical Museum to see if what they had to say about Salvador Allende, and the oppression that followed his ousting by Pinochet’s military coup. I passed patiently through the many ceramics, pieces of jewellery, clothing, portraits and weaponary on offer, many of which I have seen in other such museums, and excitedly arrived at the most modern additions. But what awaited me at the end, was not the detailed account I had hoped for, rather, the sad half-pair of glasses Allende once wore, and newspaper clippings reporting his futile death. No mention whatsoever of the next 27 years of oppression, and the affect it has had on South America’s leading economic nation.

Instead it was left to Pablo Neruda, Chile’s most famous writer and staunch socialist, and a quote of his from Book of Questions: “Porque anduvimos tanto tiempo creciendo para separrarnos?” (roughly translated: Was it because we walked so long together that time separated us?) to provide some sort of answer.

Taking the Buenos out of Aires

Having kissed the sand goodbye in Uruguay, it seemed I would also have to farewell the sun too, when rain and traffic delayed my bus’ arrival in BA by three hours. Not wanting to wait any longer, I forwent the cheaper underground option and took a taxi to the hostel. Familiar sights flashed in front of me: dog-walkers struggling with a dozen canines at a time, crowds of people moving back and forth across gargantuan boulevards, and streets littered with “kioskos” all the way to Palermo.

Conscious that my previous stopover was carried out mostly in the midnight hours, I took a warm (it’s never usually hot here) shower, handed in my washing, and set off to the Micro-Centro (city centre) to absorb some history. Squished into the “Subte” (subway), who’s six or so lines are not always working, but are always jammed full of commuters, flower sellers and performers, I made my way to the main Cathedral.

As seems to always be the way in Latin America, mass is on, but unlike in Brazil, tourists are prevented from getting too close to the altar – fair enough I acknowledge reverently. Sadly though, it seems the sanctity of its walls isn’t held up so high, and each of them are covered in peeling paint and exposed plaster. Fortunately though, the intricate flooring below, made up of tiles half the size of postage stamps, makes up for the detail that is lost above.

Smaller chapels line the central atrium, and on either side well knowns (St John the Baptist, St Theresa of Avila) rub shoulders with local favourites (St John Nepomucene, St Louis Gonzaga). But for such a grand building, there are relatively few pews, most of which are full, despite the hour (11am) and the location. But of most interest to visiting eyes is the masouleum of General José de San Martin – the Argentinean leader who was responsible for liberating Chile, and creating the pathway for Peru’s and Lima’s liberation, from Spanish reign.

Wrapped in a rather tired Argentinean flag, he is guarded by two soldiers in full military regalia – something like the red-coated English, although don’t mention the comparison to an Argentine** - under a grand high-vaulted ceiling. He is joined by his comrade in war, General Juan de las Heras, and the obligatory unknown soldier. Some things (in war and peace) are obviously universal.

After paying my various respects, I move out onto the Plaza de Mayo and am greeted by people and pigeons moving about in equal idleness. The standout Casa Rosada sits primly at the other end of the square, with its bovine red (one explanation for its pink outside is that it was originally covered in cow’s blood to stop the effects of humidity, but another, more politically-minded reason says that it was the mixing of two opposing – red and white – political factions colours) façade. I don’t know why, but I can’t help humming “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” as I think of Evita’s final speech made on the balcony above.

Unfortunately the museum is “not functioning” at the moment, and as I follow the view from its doorway, which looks out onto the HQ of the Economic Minister, I attempt to put it down to some really bad feng shui. In fact, as I wander around the front of the building and see the national bank of Argentina smiling back at me (and having recently read Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons”) I start to wonder if there are perhaps some secret tunnels here syphoning off the country’s money.

Taking these thoughts with me, I head back to the roots of BA, to the Manzana de las Luces – the supposed historical block of Enlightenment to see if I can gain a few answers. But as I step inside the oldest church in the city, Iglesia San Ignacio, and sit on pew almost covered in its dust of its original paint the plaster, I am pretty worried about who has obviously snuffed the light.

I blindly hope my final pitstop, one favoured by the country’s most esteemed writers, intellectuals and artists will prove more telling. But again, Café Tortoni, with its dirty ceilings, dated wallpaper, mix of pictures, paintings, trinkets, and busts of people who frequented it in earlier days, is nothing more than a sad relic from a much too distant past. And the black and white clad waiters, who busy themselves around me, can do little but remind me of Manuel and his home at Faulty Towers.

**It seems Argentineans all have VERY long memories when it comes to England, Maggie Thatcher, and the Falkland Islands - don't EVER mention the war.

360 Degrees Almost Conquered

After a furious pace that has left my Spanish friend Camila calling me the expert of Sao Paulo, I decide the last day of sight-seeing must include some more big-ticket items, and a little less obscurity. So first on my list is the Praça de Sé and the city’s domed Cathedral. The clouds are still lingering in the sky, but I have to keep reminding myself that at about 800m above sea level, on a table-top plateau, Sao Paulo isn’t the hottest place to be – atmospherically speaking.

I am instantly entertained by the guy with one shoe on who is doing his best Michael Jackson moves on the steps up to the cathedral, vying for attention with the many homeless people who are flogging rosary beads and prayer cards too.
The main bells chime for midday as I walk in, and I realise that the service has just started. Not to let God get in the way of good tourism, people continue to wander in and out of the wings, taking photos of the early 20th century church and its smooth curved red-brick ceiling, that makes a beautiful contrast to the stone pillars. I must also mention that it is also the first church I have ever been in that has a toilet inside. Pretty revolutionary for Catholics.

I exit mass, like a true ‘Christmas and Easter-goer’, half-way through and make my way past shoe shiners and repairman who have set up their cash-only business along the edges of the busy square. Having parted with almost all my money without even a sniff of a receipt, I shudder at the thought of having to run a country with such a fluid economy. It’s no wonder that most of their prized historical relics are rotting away in mould.

The pedestrian mall starts at the other end with lots of bag shops and sucos (juice) bars. An intriguing assortment of spruikers covered in plastic advertising bibs or just big stickers on their fronts yell all sorts of deals to passers-by, but it is pretty clear from the empty shops, they it’s not really working. Street performers also fight to gain the attention of the lunchtime crowd, and I hurry to get to the city’s highest tower to see the view, before meeting my friend at another gallery.

Positioned in the highest building, but not the tallest one (that one was sadly built in the valley, so rarely gets the attention it deserves), the journey up to the look-out point is somewhat of a protracted experience, including the handing over of ID, the taking of another mugshot, the waiting in line for the last group to descend, the following of the guide up two different lifts, and the final march up the tower’s stairs. Compared to the allowed viewing time of about six minutes, I am glad to say that the view was worth it. Damn this city is big.

Realising that I am indeed late for Camila, I wolf down a kebab and suco, and take the metro to the MASP – Sao Paulo’s Art Museum (not to be confused with MAC or MAM as seen in previous encounters). Fortunately she is being chatted up by a hippy jewellery salesman, and I finally have a good excuse to write-off a pair of new earrings. Once inside, we make our way through Brazil’s supposed best showcase of European art, which I give a polite nod too, but which seems pretty out of place in this city of graffiti. Moving downstairs though, and we come across an amazing photographic exhibition, which has been growing for the last 17 years, and a world film festival showcasing 1000 minutes, in one minute tracks, of 80 different countries. It is a marathon mission to even get through one side of the square space, or about 2 or so hours of viewing, and I dare say a complete tour would unfortunately take days. I think we are both relieved to make it out of there in one piece, and start the journey to our final destination – the MIS (Sound and Image Museum).

Fortunately here, sensible design has only left room for one exhibiting space, which is taken up by a film installation “Repeat All”. Only one mention here, the awesome idea to do a real life clock – set up as a construction site - with workers assembling and disassembling the time as it passed while we watched. I can already see it in doctor’s waiting rooms everywhere.

Um Dia in Rio

With Carnavale now officially started, I decided it was probably a good idea to squeeze in the obligatory day tour, and knock off the city’s main sites before even greater festivities began. Jumping on a bus whose tagline is “Don’t be a Gringo! Be a Local” I was faced with a guide that did her best to translate the heritage of her hometown into English, but ended up only confusing most of us with her interesting pronunciations. Only catching every second or third word, I managed to decipher that we were passing through former rich suburb Botafago, on our way to Christ the Redeemer.

Positioned high above the rest of Rio – 700 or so metres if you’re counting – the 50m statue was started in 1922 and is the largest art deco sculpture in the world. You may remember it from the opening scenes of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet or recognise its famed outstretched arms, open to the city of Rio. It is a pretty hairy trip up the mount in the bus, and an even sweatier climb once you get out, but he is not called the Redeemer for nothing, and a beautiful breeze awaited us at the top. Packed with people all jostling against you with elbows and arms to get a better photo, the preferred shot at midday was unfortunately an up-the-nose angle, so no, you won’t be seeing my picture there.

From here we moved onto the stadium, which is hardly worth a mention because all that met us here were a couple of street sellers trying to flog Flamengo jerseys and beer – of course. Likewise the Sambadrome was off limits to us and we were only able to drive by and witness a flash of colour and activity as the children’s Carnaval was getting underway.

Falling asleep at this stage, I hoped that the incessant babble from our host might pause for a moment, and let me take back some of last night, but no such luck. However, soon after she announced our arrival at Rio’s Cathedral, and it was me who went quiet. Housed in a very unattractive ‘modern’ cement shell (literally, it is shaped like a cone) are four spectacular ‘rays’ of leadlight windows stretching themselves almost entirely up the 75m structure. Cursing myself for not having a tripod – churches are the worst nightmare for photographers – I found myself craning into positions that would make a contortionist proud, just to capture their colours. I have read that it can hold up tot 20,000 people on any given Sunday, and I can definitely understand why so many would want to turn up.

Finally our trip ended with the double cable-car ride up Sugar Loaf Mount – so named because its shape was said to remind settlers of their prized export – and a sunset-tinted view of the entire city. Pretty clichéd, but when in Rio…